


With Amber Hands

by gloss



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M, OTP Feels, Post-TLJ, stick & poke tattoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 22:16:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15616194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: Finn is proficient in a variety of the needle arts. Poe's here for the long term.





	With Amber Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Forever thanks to @orchis for audiencing and encouraging. ♥
> 
> Title from Dickinson, ["The moon is distant from the sea"](https://www.bartleby.com/113/3031.html).

So much had changed that little things shouldn't be surprising, not any longer. Despite that "should", however, minor details kept leaping out. They struck him as strange and eerie, edged with demanding radiance. Poe tried to maintain a list of them; it felt urgent, significant somehow, not to forget. The serrated gills on the giant fungi around the space port, for instance. The strange whispery calm to Rey's voice. 

And this: _Finn_. The sight of Finn sitting outside, cross-legged on a shuttle seat. The seats had been tossed outside while the shuttles were reconfigured for faster travel. Everyone was still arguing about whose job it was to bring them back aboard. 

Finn had a small hoop in one hand, taut with fabric, and a threaded needle in the other; he was bent to his work, profile in shadow, doubled moonglow tracing the length of his neck and sudden textural tumult of his hair.

"Can I see?" Poe asked, sinking down on the seat.

Finn didn't jump at the interruption; he barely stirred. He finished the stitches he was in the middle of, removed the needle (slipping it through a fold of his jersey), and handed the hoop to Poe.

The pattern was simple, an outline of a cityscape and some ships in the clouds above.

"Didn't know you were into this," Poe said. "Cool."

"You know, it's one of the few socially acceptable ways to stab something multiple times," Finn said with a small smile as he took back the hoop from Poe.

"That's an urge you're having?"

Finn squinted a little, then shook his head. "Nope, but maybe this is keeping it at bay."

Poe nodded and wiggled into the upholstery. "Better keep it up, then."

"That's the plan," Finn replied. He turned the hoop almost 180 degrees, studying his work, no doubt finding tiny flaws that no one else would ever notice. He glanced over at Poe and smiled back. "Really calming. Just poke, pull, poke, pull."

"I had to do it in crèche," Poe offered. "Embroidery. Not stabbing. That wouldn't have gone well."

"Is that why your clothing repairs are so flawless?"

"Shut up," Poe said easily and shifted, folding his other leg under him and leaning against the cushions. "I was under a time crunch."

"Imagine what you could do without a deadline," Finn murmured, drawing thread between his lips to wet it for inserting through the needle. Poe watched, fascinated, the tip of his tongue following a similar path along his own lips. He shrugged, unashamed, when Finn caught him looking.

"I dunno, I work better with limits."

"You just said—" Finn shook his head. It was difficult when he wasn't distracted to keep up with the twists, loops, and quantum spirals that Poe's conversation was prone to take. "Never mind."

Poe watched Finn work and remained quiet for longer than either of them might have predicted. When Finn had completed an expanse of the sky, he set down the hoop and stretched out his hands.

"Cramp?" Poe asked.

"Nearly."

"Let me—" Poe took Finn's left hand and rubbed it, concentrating on the meat of his thumb and the taut places between the bones. Finn's hands were beautiful; there was no other word for them. Large and graceful, impressively strong and yet so deft. Gentle, even.

When Poe was finished, Finn shook out his hand and laughed. "Much better. Now do this one." He twisted around and offered his right hand.

"But I kind of—" Poe almost said _shot my wad_ but managed to stop himself. He'd have to be out of his mind to pass up a chance to touch Finn, even just his hands.

"Troopers used to mark each other," Finn said when they'd been quiet a long time. That was, perhaps, one of the strangest changes of all the recent changes: Poe was better acquainted with the quiet, less resistant to it, even sometimes comfortable there. Finn was there, so it was worth it.

Poe dug a knuckle into the base of Finn's thumb and rocked it back and forth. "Mark how?"

He pictured troopers embroidering each other's white armor and couldn't hide his grin.

"Needle and ink," Finn said, then, "What are you smirking at?"

"I'm not smirking! Spread your fingers."

"Yes, sir." Finn turned his hand palm down and spread his fingers as far as they'd go. Poe set to rubbing each one, tugging it gently before rolling each knuckle between his thumb and forefinger. "You know how—. No, of course you don't. Okay, so on Starkiller, the moon not the...base, I guess, the place. Not the weapon. The aboriginals burned this soft black rock for warmth."

"There were aboriginals on Starkiller?" 

"Not any more," Finn said. Off Poe's horrified expression, he added quickly, "I mean, not when....Not at the end. Not as of a couple years after I got there."

"Fuck," Poe said.

Finn turned his hand and laced their fingers together. "Five," he said and they did the count together. A breath in, hold, and out, five times. Acknowledge something powerful assailing you, and then, when the count was done, you kept going.

"We called it sticky rock, I don't know what it was really named," Finn continued. They were inclining closer together, elbows up on the back of the seat touching now. Knees, too. "Pain in the fucking ass to clean up, actually. Get it wet and it was like ancient ink."

"For painting with?" Poe asked. He wasn't exactly an art expert, but he seemed to remember a reception, early in his time with the Republic, in a museum on, he wanted to say Corellia, but it could have been Coruscant. The young captains in their crisp uniforms were lined up, every bit as decorative as the holos of art shimmering throughout the room. Some work from a Rim world consisted of black and gray loops on mats of woven bast fibers. He remembered them because they reminded him of the way Muran's hair looked in the mornings, a tangle that seemed impossible to solve but compelled all your attention.

With his free hand, Finn slipped the needle from the hoop and poked it against Poe's forearm.

"Like that," he said when Poe yelped.

"Warn a guy!"

"Nah, you wouldn't have sat still."

Scowling, Poe feinted right, making to grab the needle, then tackled Finn around the waist, knocking him halfway off the seat. Finn's head bounced on the sooty lavender lichens. He maneuvered rapidly, pulling Poe off and down to his side, trapping Poe's torso between the seat and his body.

"I sit still in the cockpit all the time, first of all."

"You're strapped in there."

"Yeah, but—" Poe dug his elbow under himself and pushed upwards. Finn only let him get so far, but it was something. "Okay, that's a good point."

"You're happiest in motion, that's all," Finn said. "It's just how it is."

"I can stay still, though."

Finn didn't have a reply for that. He rubbed his face against his arm to remove most of the lichen soot, then blew upwards to dislodge more.

"Excuse me?" Poe said.

"That was me blowing air."

"Oh." Poe slid down and looked away. "I thought you were making farts at what I said."

"Man," Finn said. "I wouldn't do that."

"Yeah."

"No matter how absurd your claim might be."

"Hey!" Poe frowned, but his expression gradually cleared, the longer he looked at Finn, the quieter he remained. Finn shifted against him, making room for one of Poe's legs and tucking his fingers under the waistband of Poe's trousers. In small movements and imperceptible breaths, they fit better together. They went from tangled up to comfortable.

"Tell me about the marking," Poe said.

"Or I could show you," Finn offered.

Though the day was still mild, the first moon was setting. The light was bleeding out, leaving the shadows deeper and blurring the finer textures of things like Finn's eyelashes, Poe's stubble. Poe propped his head on his hand and looked Finn over, forehead to waist, all the way down to his worn boots.

"Does it hurt?" Poe's other hand moved up and down Finn's chest. Sometimes, this was the strangest of all the sudden effusion of detail: Finn, warm and solid, so very close.

"Asks the King of Concussions and Emperor of Abrasions," Finn said. "Yeah, it hurts some."

"And it washes off?"

Finn's laugh rumbled up from his chest. "No, it's permanent, it's—." He shifted upward, half-propelling himself, half-pulling Poe down by the shoulder. When he spoke again, their noses brushed. The sound of his voice became warm breath. "It's the real deal."

"Do it," Poe said. "Go for it."

Finn insisted on _doing it right_ , so rather than remaining outside, they went back aboard ship. Poe waited on the edge of his bunk, one knee bouncing, while Finn took his everlasting- _time_ coming in and out, preparing everything. Poe remembered being seven and waiting outside the med-droid's suite. For once, he wasn't injured or suddenly sick, but his mother was.

He swallowed and set to jittering the other knee.

"I looked for orange ink," Finn said, backing into the bunk, "but quartermaster just laughed at me."

"Who's playing Q today?"

Finn glanced up, smiling. "Connix. She says hey. And she wants to see the finished product."

"Hey, Connix," Poe said. He fixed his posture and kicked Finn's leg. "Are you almost ready? This is getting weird."

"Weird how?"

Poe shrugged. "I don't know. Weird."

Finn straightened up. "It's the waiting, isn't it?"

"Probably."

"Take off your shirt."

Poe's eyes widened and he grinned. "Oh?"

"Dameron," Finn said. With a long needle lashed to a longer piece of metal in one hand and dish of ink in the other, he stood in front of Poe and looked down. "Unless you want me to do your face, shirt comes off."

Blinking, Poe opened his mouth and closed it. "Oh, the mark. Yeah, okay." He ducked his head and pulled off his shirt.

"What did you think I meant?"

Poe kicked the ground and looked away. "Fucking my throat. I couldn't understand what my shirt had to do with it."

"Maybe later," Finn said lightly. "For now, lie down."

"Front or back?"

"Your call."

Poe lay on his back and held his breath. His stomach hollowed below his ribs and he shivered when Finn pressed his palm there.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," Poe said, "Just. Thinking. Don't know what to expect."

Finn swung a leg over and straddled Poe's thigh. "Isn't that always the way?"

He was kneeling over Poe, looking down, smiling gently. From this angle, he was pretty much everything. Everything Poe could see, that is, and feel, too, given how Finn's weight was settling atop him. 

"Let's do this," Poe said and it came out like a whisper. Finn nodded, his lips pursed, but didn't move for a very long time.

Eventually, however, he set the ink beside Poe's cheek and dipped the needle in. The first poke hurt about as much as getting nipped by a stick-skater in a pond back home: not much, but sharp at first, that was for sure. The next, and the next, as Finn slowly worked, added heat to the flush on Poe's skin, but not much more pain.

They hadn't discussed what the design would be, or where it would go, but Poe only realized this well after Finn had started. Finn was working on Poe's chest, about equidistant between nipple and clavicle. His rhythm was enthralling, the dip-tap-poke accompanied by a leaning in and coming close of his body, then a withdrawal. Just like a pond back home, the plants moving under the water, lazily adjusting to the currents.

Poe rolled his lips together. The heat was a tissue, a leaf, caught on his skin and sinking in.

With Finn here, however, it was also like making out. They were close, and contact kept coming, but the sensation kept spreading, rather than deepening. Finn swayed above him and Poe breathed slowly and the ink gathered. Every so often, one of them murmured something, but not exactly to garner response, so much as to express a passing thought or sensation.

"How're you feeling?" Finn asked after working for a long time. He stuck the needle behind one ear and massaged his poking hand.

"Hot," Poe said. "Like a rash? It's good. I like it."

Finn's brows knit together just before he smiled.

"What?" Poe said. "You asked."

"True, it's all on me."

"How's it look?" Poe lifted his head, straining to see, but couldn't make out anything. 

"Bloody," Finn replied.

"Oh."

"But good! Don't freak out."

Poe dropped his head back. "Not freaking out."

After a moment, Finn cupped his cheek, brushing his thumb over Poe's chin. "You sure?"

Rather than immediately denying anything, Poe thought about it. His heart was beating a little fast, but that could have been because Finn was straddling him and had been for an hour. His mind was racing and choppy, but when wasn't it?

"I bleed a lot," Poe said. "So it's not that."

"All right," Finn replied. His hand stayed where it was. His thumb went _zwick-zwick_ against Poe's stubble. "We can stop."

"No, I want you to finish! Whatever your design is, I mean." Poe tried to stretch in place, wiggling his fingers and toes, willing his jaw to relax. "What the fuck."

"What the fuck, what?"

"Is wrong with me."

"Nothing," Finn said, but they snorted at that together. "I mean, lots, same as everyone. But nothing terrible. Nowhere near anything terrible."

"Why do you always end up being nice to me?"

Finn mouth turned up at one side. "That a problem?"

"No," Poe said and sighed. He banged his hand against the side of the bunk. "Just doesn't seem fair."

Finn lifted and resettled, taking some weight off his aching knee. "You're pretty nice to me. Just for the record."

"Yeah, but." Poe shook his head. "I'm not making much sense."

"That's hardly news."

For a second, Poe wanted to hit the bunk again. Not because of Finn, but because he couldn't _be_ what he wanted Finn to have. Instead he slipped his hand up Finn's thigh and squeezed. "Do you like doing this?"

"The poking?"

"Yeah."

Finn nodded. "On you? Yeah."

"I don't know what I was expecting," Poe said, "But not that. Huh."

"Bad?"

"No. Good. Real good."

"Okay." Finn bent down, coming even closer than he did for a poke, and brushed their lips together.

When the troopers did this in the barracks, the process was hurried and furtive. Driven by anxiety, they stabbed each other and hoped the results looked decent. Finn was always too slow, too cautious, to be trusted with the needle for very long. His hands shook while his heart beat right behind his eyes and made it hard to act.

This was different.

Finn pulled back and moved the ink and needle off the bunk. The mark on Poe's chest glowed a little, the skin flushed and smeared with blood.

Poe cocked an eyebrow and, rolling his eyes to show how ironic he was being, said hoarsely, "Now I'm yours. Got the proof."

Finn's breath hitched and he snorted, then pressed his forehead against the base of Poe's throat. He breathed in the smell of Poe's skin, let the warmth and proximity do a five-count for him. "Not like that. I just like...leaving a trace, I think. I was here, this mattered."

He'd never scratched his designation number into any surface or customized his helmet. He'd passed through the First Order as smoothly as he could.

Here, however, he needed to snag. Find the burn of friction and stick close.

"You matter," Poe said.

"Thanks," Finn said, raising his head. "Seriously."

"But also," Poe said, "All yours. Just to be clear." His mouth twisted like he was trying to taste something. 

Finn pressed his thumb against the spiral he'd poked into Poe's skin and Poe's breath caught. 

"What am I going to do with you?" Finn asked as he brushed the last of the blood away.

"Any—. Everything," Poe said.


End file.
